Tsing-Boum (19 page)

‘One last thing about this garrison – why paratroops? The Legion I understand: ponderous, powerful. And old-fashioned soldiers – stomachs, beards, hung around with grenades and canteens full of vino. But paratroops! Supposed to be mobile, sudden – no?'

‘Just so,' tranquil, ‘but the longer one looks at it the sillier it becomes. The original idea was for an attacking base – Castries was to command manoeuvres – including armour! When it became apparent that this was in reality a besieged fort paratroops were still used – a mistake repeated in Algeria. It became commonplace to concede that the Legion and para regiments were the only really effective shock troops. They were held as the general reserve, and were too often wasted in little packets to block a hole. And lastly, of course, once the camp was sealed off the only reinforcements that could be given it were para units.'

‘Nobody noticed the stupidity of that – unless of course Laforêt did?'

‘Paratroop units carry out the instructions given. The sillier those are, the more important that there should be no failure.'

‘They failed – did not forgive themselves – but were happy to pitch on any scapegoats there might be going.'

‘The camp was held for two months under continuous attack – by roughly two and a half thousand effective troops, commanded by a lieutenant-colonel with no strategic training, aided by half a dozen officers later abused as the “mafia” – including in a minor role your humble servant.'

‘The same mafia condemned a junior officer guilty of a nervous collapse to a living death, perverting justice to do so.'

‘You are mistaken,' with a sudden impressive dignity. ‘The mafia was in no way responsible for that act. At the time he was my boy, under my command, and for what was done I take sole responsibility.' As he spoke, Van der Valk had to admit, the general was formidable.

‘I seek to judge no man,' said Van der Valk. ‘Neither you, mon général, nor Colonel Godard, nor Lieutenant Laforêt. No one, perhaps, will ever understand.'

‘What went on in their minds – perhaps not. And perhaps you are right to make the equation.'

‘Laforêt had the fatal gift of imagination.'

‘You seek to exculpate him – to whitewash him,' snapped the general.

‘Nobody even tried to defend him.' Van der Valk's voice was heating in its turn. ‘What did you do – send him a pistol in a Christmas-wrapped box – as legend suggested some officers did to Navarre?'

‘What would you expect – that I go politely with my hat in my hand, inviting him to collect his gratuities and would he be so good as quietly to resign from the army? … In the camp, Langlais tore the beret off an officer he thought did not deserve to wear it. An officer of his own rank. The rule was universal. Nobody singled out Laforêt, as you appear to imply. History, Monsieur le Commissaire de Police, has forgotten those who did not enhance their reputation in battles. And we – I say we – do not submit ourselves to the judgement of a civilian – even a policeman.'

‘No,' said Van der Valk lumbering to his feet, ‘and neither did General Christian Marie Ferdinand de la Croix de Castries, descendant of dukes and marshals, submit himself to the judgement of a Breton peasant. He just couldn't help himself.'

‘Sit down, Commissaire,' said the general gently. ‘I beg your pardon.'

‘And I beg your pardon. He was your boy, and you suffered for him.'

‘Esther Marx put a bullet in him. She was one of ours. It was her sorrow and bitter regret that she was not there with us.'

‘Had she been with you, Laforêt would not have deserted.'

‘I never thought of that,' said the general.

‘How many l's in intelligence?'

‘One,' said Ruth.

‘There are two,' said Arlette severely. ‘Which makes four large horrible faults in your dictation, which means you'd get a six at the very best and probably a five-and-a-half or even a five. Write it out again taking especial pains with the presentation, and if you really concentrate I'm sure you'll get a nine at least tomorrow.'

There was silence for ten minutes, underlined by a faint muttering noise like a mouse in a wainscot.

‘Bugger.'

‘Where did you learn that expression?'

‘You.'

‘Mm. None the less it's a vulgar expression which you're not allowed to use. Don't lean so heavily on your pen.'

Another minute's silence and muttering.

‘M'an.'

‘What?'

‘Esther was shot, wasn't she?'

Arlette had always supposed that a day would come when one had to tell lies to children, and in theory she still had a feeling that this must be so. In practice it never seemed to work out.

‘What – have you finished your dictation?' to gain time.

‘Yes.'

‘Oh. What gives you the idea?'

‘I heard Mevrouw Paap telling her husband. She thought I didn't understand.'

‘Yes. It's true.'

‘Who shot her?'

‘Père being a policeman, he's doing his best to find out. That's why he went to France.'

‘Somebody in France?'

‘I don't know – maybe he does by now.'

‘Does it hurt, being shot?'

‘I've never been shot but I'm told it doesn't. A bump and a fright – like falling down the stairs. She died very quickly and I'm sure she didn't feel any pain.'

‘Like on the television serial. Was it gangsters?'

Arlette, who was on her hands and knees on the floor, cutting a pattern, put down the scissors.

‘Gangsters are a rarity. Luckily. Père thinks perhaps somebody Esther once knew. Somebody unhappy and upset, not at all well, who imagined somehow that he had to shoot her.'

‘Why?'

‘One imagines things when one is ill. Haven't you sometimes been feverish and had horrible dreams, that you were being chased or something?'

‘Yes, but I didn't shoot anyone.'

‘Which goes to show that you weren't very ill. Once when I was very tired and upset I threw a kitchen knife at somebody. That was just as bad.'

‘Who at?'

‘That has no importance – I only wanted to show you that one could shoot people.'

‘Were they frightened, the person?'

‘Yes – a bit.'

‘Esther wasn't easily frightened,' with an implied contempt. ‘She was a parachutist.'

‘Would you like to be a parachutist?' rejoicing in a possible change of subject. ‘Pass me my pins; they're on the table in your reach – and screw up your pen; it might roll off.'

‘I could be. I know where one can learn.'

‘Really?' mildly interested but wanting to accelerate down this promising side road. ‘Where's that?'

‘In Belgium somewhere. It's quite a long way. Esther took me once, in the car.' Zomerlust's old dark-blue Simca Ariane; Arlette felt a slight pinch in her heart.

‘When was that?'

‘Oh, about a month ago. Esther said just for fun she'd show me how it was done.'

‘What is it then, a flying club?'

‘What's that?'

‘I don't know – a sort of little airfield.'

‘Yes, like that. You can learn to parachute – there's a sort of gymnasium. But I don't know exactly because she didn't, after all.'

Arlette had begun to prick her ears up.

‘What made her change her mind?'

‘I don't know – I think she had a row with the man there. Cost too much, very likely,' with an air of familiarity, as though she knew all about making a row over something that costs too much.

‘These places are pretty expensive, I believe,' said Arlette cautiously. ‘Tell me about it though – I'd like to try, some time.'

‘I think it's not far from Hasselt. A long way. Be too far for you in the deux-chevaux, I dare say,' with a superior voice. She was plainly pleased at knowing about something Arlette didn't.

‘I'm sure I could – parachute, I mean. One has to conquer one's fear. I only hope I wouldn't get vertigo.'

‘Esther said one didn't get vertigo. You have to learn first jumping off a high platform, with a sort of line strung to you. Landing is the hardest part.'

‘I suppose it would be,' humbly. ‘And this man – was he in charge?'

‘I think so. He was all right. He was talking to me for a bit, and then Esther came out of a sort of office place, and she told me very crossly to go and wait in the car, and then a bit after she came and said she'd changed her mind. She bought me an ice though – but she was very niggly all day so she was fed up about something. I wanted to go back another time but she shut me up.'

Arlette did get a feeling of vertigo because she suddenly realized that she had understood.

‘What's the matter?'

‘I got a bit dizzy from bending over. Come on; bedtime.'

‘But it is only half past eight.'

‘I said bed and I mean it. But you can have an orange first.'

Her heart beat furiously and she longed for the telephone to ring. She was sure he would ring, since he always did unless there was something very startling. Would he laugh at her?

She paced about nervously, looking at her watch all the time. I am in a trench, she thought, waiting for the signal to be given for a counter-attack. She made several feeble attempts to quieten her nerves, including a drink that was much too strong. I'm a bit pissed, she kept thinking. I am certainly imagining things. I wish he were here. When the telephone did ring, at the time it always did, between nine and half past, she was depressed and as though disappointed, and afraid to say what was on her mind.

‘Hallo – oh, it's you. Where are you?'

‘Who did you think it was – an unknown admirer who saw you buying a cauliflower and followed you home?' His voice sounded tired and tart, and none too sure of himself, which made two of them. ‘Where am I? I'm in Paris, and not enjoying it a bit.'

‘I thought you were in Clermont-Ferrand.'

‘I was. I left. I got a plane. It went very fast. I think I left my brains back there or something. It was snowing there. Here it's quite mild – Breton weather. Which is just as well because I lost a glove.'

‘Oh dear. What are you doing in Paris? – where are you exactly?'

‘In a very odd little hotel near the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Queer things are happening to me. I'm being buggered about by DST. I'm not at all sure how to act – I've got to try and think things out. People have been following me about. And this evening I met a rather peculiar individual – I've got to digest him. I'm going now to get some sleep – alone, thank heaven.'

‘Are DST still mixed up with this?' anxiously.

‘I'm damned if I know how much. I'm still trying to find out where Laforêt is. I have a suspicion they know but they won't tell me. I can't make out what they're at. Quite likely they're listening to me right now, and I'm damned if I care, either.'

‘Are they really?' asked Arlette, distraught. ‘I've got something to tell you but I'd better not if the line is tapped.'

‘No no, that's all nonsense. I'm pretty sure they've better things to do, though I sincerely wish I knew what. Tell me anyway – take my mind off my own clowning about.'

‘I think I know where he is,' said Arlette in a tense whisper.

‘Where who is? Your admirer? What are you whispering for? Where is he then – the bathroom?'

‘Shut up, you fool – yes you are clowning. I'm serious. I think I know.'

‘Who?'

‘You know who.' There was a long silence. ‘Are you still there?'

‘Yes yes – there was a little green man in here, but I sent him away. Is Ruth there?'

‘She ought to be asleep but I want to keep my voice down.'

‘Let me try and concentrate. Has she said something?'

‘Yes, she had a story about Esther going parachuting and changing her mind.'

‘Where, in heaven's name?'

‘Belgium somewhere – over the border and I think somewhere near Hasselt. Isn't that roughly across from Eindhoven?'

‘It is. Parachuting – you mean really jumping out of a plane?'

‘Apparently. She mentioned an airfield. But she said Esther went there for fun, you understand, to show her or something, and there was a man there, and Esther changed her mind abruptly and went straight home and behaved oddly for some time.'

‘Did she talk to this man – Esther I mean?'

‘Ruth talked to him. Esther sent her back in the car – and came herself a little later. How little? – no idea.'

‘What's he look like, this man?'

‘Darling – a child. Even if one could ask she wouldn't know.'

‘Sorry, of course. Parachuting. This is extraordinary.'

‘You think there's something in it?'

‘I don't know. But it would illumine some remarks I have heard.'

‘You didn't know though?'

‘No, but I rather think you may have something.'

‘It's not very funny though, being a detective.'

‘You've taken rather a time finding that out. This may be most important. Does the child have any idea?'

‘No, but she does have the idea Esther was shot. They know everything. She saw something funny in this episode, but she didn't get it worked out. What are you going to do – go there?'

‘Of course I have to go there. You know this is a very strange thing – you know coincidence doesn't exist.'

‘A coincidence that you should be going to arrest Ruth's father for killing her mother,' said Arlette, and burst into tears, and was immediately so angry with herself that she slammed the phone down without another word, and sat on the floor by the telephone table crying to herself for ten minutes and more.